


Sickroom

by edibleflowers



Category: Torchwood RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:17:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ripped from the headlines of John Barrowman's current panto illness! Someone's a bad patient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sickroom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemniskate67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemniskate67/gifts).



> I have this really special friend whose birthday happens to be today. This is for her. Love you, lemniskate67. Also, this is fluffy fluff fluff.
> 
> Originally posted on January 4, 2011, on my Livejournal.

"And stay in bed!" Gareth said for what felt like the thousandth time. As he went out, he heard a muttered curse promising dark revenge coming from behind him, and rolled his eyes.

John had been sick for four days now; Gareth thought he might lose his mind if the cold lasted one day longer. It was bad enough the man turned grumpy and sullen when he was sick, but when that was compounded by anxiety over missed shows, he became impossible to deal with. Gareth had been taking care of him diligently, but he could feel himself reaching the limits of his patience.

He had help, thank God; when John's parents had come in from Florida over Christmas, Marion had taken it upon herself to cook pots and pots of soup (apparently planning on feeding the nation through World War Three), which Gareth had frozen in order to stretch out the supply. John's family in the area had helped, too, sending over food and offering a variety of remedies, each more improbable than the last, but guaranteed to keep Gareth chuckling even as he swore he'd never force them on John. Then there was the godsend of John's cousin being able to take over the role. It didn't really make John any happier, but at least he wasn't fretting over postponed or cancelled shows.

Taking a tray out, Gareth began to assemble lunch for John. The latest reheated pot of soup still bubbled on the stove; Gareth ladled up a good-sized bowl of chicken broth, loaded with thick chunks of chicken, carrots, and celery. He had bread from yesterday -- one of John's aunts' special rosemary and potato bread -- and he sliced up a couple of wedges to go with the soup. John wasn't up to a lot of heavy food yet, but he'd been complaining about broth and oatmeal; Gareth hoped the crankiness was a positive sign.

Certainly, John had more energy today; he'd even been up to throwing a tennis ball across the room for Charlie to catch earlier. The dogs, worried by the change in routine, had spent much of their time pinning the covers down around John (and incidentally helping out as bed-warmers), occasionally whining and licking his face. But now John wanted to go downstairs to eat, and while Gareth was tempted to let him try, he didn't fancy dragging John back into bed. _Not this time, anyway_ , he thought ruefully.

He finished slicing bread, set it on a plate, and took out a mug, filling it with tea from the kettle. Once he'd added a dollop of honey, he arranged the tray and then picked it up. He had to carefully sidestep Captain Jack as he headed for the stairs, muttering under his breath about the terrier's supernatural ability to get under feet no matter what.

"I can make it downstairs on my own," John grumped as Gareth set the tray down over his lap.

"Sure you can," Gareth said. John was propped up with several pillows; he moved the tray to a better location while Gareth cleared used tissues from the bedside table (and a few from under the bed, where Harris had stolen them to tear apart).

"Can't I have a sandwich?" John asked, poking a piece of bread into the soup. "I'm starving."

"If you eat all of that." Gareth scooped the tissues into a bin, then went to wash his hands. When he came back, John was reluctantly starting in on the soup, giving him the evil eye at the same time.

"You are the worst patient in recorded history," Gareth informed him, sitting on the side of the bed to steal a slice of bread.

"I hate you," John mumbled around the soup. Smiling, Gareth dunked his bread and took a bite.

As he'd expected, John was yawning by the time he'd finished his meal. Gareth was pleased to see how much he'd eaten; if he kept up like this, he'd be back on his feet tomorrow for sure. Gareth took the tray and set it on the bedside table, then slid himself in behind John. "Here," he murmured. "Lay back on me."

John yawned again as he settled, his head lolling back on Gareth's shoulder. "You put something in the soup," he accused sleepily.

"Didn't," Gareth said, smiling and brushing John's damp hair back from his forehead. "You're overtired."

"Am not," John protested. His eyes drifted shut, and he muttered, "Don't really hate you."

"I didn't think so," Gareth said in response, leaning down to press a kiss to John's forehead. The skin was warm, no longer feverish. Tomorrow, he was sure, John would be feeling himself again. Gareth smiled in quiet anticipation.


End file.
